


Half-Baked Plans And Finished Tea Cakes

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 20:55:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2402582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during Doctor Bashir, I Presume. Garak and Bashir make plans that do not come to fruition. When the young doctor comes to his quarters saying he wishes to resign from Starfleet, Garak suggests an alternative turn of action. Spoilers, kids.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half-Baked Plans And Finished Tea Cakes

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I wrote this fic in October 2014, and updated it in November 2015, adding nearly two thousand words.

Garak is quite comfortable for the time being, settled in a thickly padded armchair in his rooms. He has a dress of Argonian silk laid in his lap, and he works carefully on his stitching, ensuring it is properly hidden in the hem in order that it not be obvious or uncomfortable against the leg. The morning had been disappointingly uneventful, and now that he's retired to his quarters he expects nothing else exciting to happen; beside him, on the table, is a waiting PADD. _Les Misérables_ is an old work of Terran French origin, apparently all to do with the nation's revolution, and Garak has no doubt that it will be full of very _interesting_ ideas, but the size of the file had been somewhat surprising. Most of the books Julian has recommended to him thus far have been short: this volume is anything but, and he is quite ready to make a start on it this evening.

Or at least, he might have been: the thought is quite interrupted when the doors open with a soft sound.

He glances up, and the doors shut swiftly behind Doctor Bashir, at which point the young man moves inside and drops onto one of Garak's chairs, flopping across the chair and burying his face against its arm. His entire body is slack, each of his long limbs loosely held about his body, and Garak frowns at him, somewhat concerned. It is not in Julian's nature to intrude without permission, on Garak's quarters or anyone else's – even in a medical emergency, he's never entered Garak's quarters without knocking.

And he has certainly _never_ entered Garak's presence without a word.

“My dear, once they've looked in your quarters, anyone who knows you well will look here next,” Garak says quietly in a tone that is approaching stern, but he continues with his work. He can only guess that is the reason for the young fellow's hiding here as opposed to anywhere else, and it is somewhat gratifying to know that Garak is preferred over anyone else on the station.

“They don't know me well,” Julian mumbles in a dispassionate fashion, and the words are said against the cushion of the chair. Garak barely comprehends them, but he doesn't let on of his difficulties. “And you'll tell them I'm not here.”

“Oh, will I?” Garak asks archly, but to Julian the tease in his voice will be plain.

“Garak,” Julian says tiredly, in the weakest tone Garak has ever heard from that throat of his, and Garak falters inwardly for a moment. “Please.” The Cardassian carefully catches the needle in a folded piece of fabric, setting the dress on the table in front of him. Then, he stands, moving forwards and carefully placing his palm upon Julian's back. He strokes in a slow, rhythmic circles, feeling the young man flatten himself into the chair as he slackens even further under the touch, and Garak is uncomfortable.

A Cardassian would _never_ allow another man to touch him in such a manner, but Julian has always been too trusting and far, _far_ too human.

“My dear Julian, you don't look very well,” Garak murmurs, and then he crouches beside the couch, letting his hand slide from the other's back to cup his cheek. The Human turns his head, looking at Garak with exhaustion obvious on his strange, soft features. Garak feels the pulse of his bloodflow beneath the muscle of his cheek, and is well aware that he could easily grasp the young man by the throat, but he doesn't do so.

“I am-” Julian hesitates for a moment, looking up at Garak with his trusting eyes wide and uncertain, his pretty lips parted. If he's going to look so completely lovely, then something very awful indeed must be happening. It's a shame, really. Garak should really like to _enjoy_ that expression. “I'm afraid I will be tendering my resignation from Starfleet tomorrow morning.” The words are spoken in a soft, calculated fashion. Julian looks at the older man carefully from under his brow, as if he thinks Garak may give him some tongue lashing or other. And he is certainly surprised, but-

“Very well,” Garak says lightly, and he speaks warmly enough, unwilling to be too sharp with the young fellow. He uses his most _pleasant_ tone. If it's enough to force Bashir to leave Starfleet, it must be something very grave indeed, given that that's where the young thing's passion lies. “If I might suggest, I did see an advert for a particularly lovely small cruiser – not much in way of weaponry or defence, so the Gamma Quadrant would certainly be out of the question, but we could take it back towards Earth and into Federation space. I hear the Vulcan springs are very nice this time of year, and after that, we could go onto Andoria. I imagine if we we were to combine our savings, we could easily buy it and cruise from place to place for a year or more before having to find work. If you wanted to make a real event of it, we could even invite Miss Ziyal, and we could tell everyone we're her adoptive parents.”

Julian looks at him for a few moments, a small smile on his face, and then he laughs a little. The relief shows in every feature, and Garak thinks for a moment he might start sobbing. He braces himself for the expected ugly sight, but then Julian says (slightly hoarsely, but not through tears), “Have you been looking at my financial records?”

“Of course not, Doctor,” Garak assures him, voice dripping with an expertly sculpted faux innocence. “It would be quite illegal if I were to look through such documents that are not my own.”

“Exactly,” Julian says ruefully, and Garak's lip twitches. “You've not asked why.”

“I haven't,” Garak agrees. “You lie to me all the time, after all, my dear Julian – I've ceased bothering. Your cruel, Human tendencies of constant deception rather tire me out.” Bashir laughs at him, and although the emotional fatigue is still plain in the cadence of the sound and the lines of worry on his face, it is good to have drawn such a pleasant sound from him. Garak wonders, sometimes, what it might be like to enjoy that sound whenever he so pleases, to draw it from the young man at his will, but he cannot indulge so. Garak does his best not to indulge overmuch, these days.

“I'm afraid, Garak, if I am to continue being so deceptive, I must practise constantly,” Julian says seriously: it's odd, really, that Garak enjoys these silly, sarcastic games as much as he does. It's rather childish of him, and even more childish of the Human, and yet… Well. He can be allowed _some_ indulgences.

“Oh,” Garak purrs. “Is that why you do it?”

“You've found me out,” Julian murmurs, and he leans forwards and carefully sits up, his hands moving to rest on the other man's shoulders. It's very uncomfortable, having those soft doctor's hands so close to the ridges on his shoulders, but Garak doesn't say so, and nor does he coax the young man to grip them harder. That would be very indulgent of him indeed. “If I tell you, do I have any promise that you won't kill me for it?”

“I haven't killed you yet, even after hearing your opinions on Vulcan literature,” Garak points out. “If anything of Vulcan can be _called_ as such.” He's considered it, of course. There were several hundred ways he might have killed the other man – especially now that young Ziyal is on the station, another cure for his loneliness that wouldn't involve a Human every afternoon. But Julian is such a charming young thing, and perhaps Garak wants his company more than he ought.

Bashir closes his eyes and takes in a quiet breath, as if steeling himself for something. Garak catches the young thing's hands and pulls them from his shoulders, clasping them in his own, thumbing over the backs of Julian's charming hands. It discomforts him to still be crouched, to be looking up at the other man, but it is not the worst position he's been in. “When I was a child, I was- not as I am now.”

Julian Bashir can be said to be a talkative man, but now he talks and talks and occasionally stumbles over his words, uncertain and unsure, never once drawing his hands away from the Cardassian's own. His hands are warm. His story is less so. Garak studies his face as he speaks, and he considers how much the good doctor is trusting him in telling him this – it's a terrible folly, but he will never learn. And the facts of the matter? Well!

DNA resequencing. Genetic engineering. A super human.

“And I- Starfleet's policy is not to allow fr-”

“Don't use that word, my dear,” Garak says sharply, firmly, and Julian recoils slightly. It's almost as if he's surprised at Garak's introduction, and perhaps he is. Too startled to continue speaking, anyway, and so Garak finishes his sentence for him: “It is Starfleet's policy not to allow genetically altered beings into service.”

“It's illegal, and my parents will go to prison, I'll be dishonourably discharged, so I- I'm going to resign tomorrow morning, and spare everyone the trouble.” The man is so excitable, and so intelligent, and so _arrogant_ , and yet he's so willing to sacrifice himself. And what for? His _parents_? It's the most human thing Garak's heard of, and it's quite nauseating.

“Who knows?” Garak asks in a low tone. He's never had Julian's hands like this before, and while he can't allow himself to be distracted, it certainly is a nice thing to consider. Very warm, these hands are, so pleasant against the scaled flesh of his own: he wants to keep them gripped here forever, feel the young man's fingers against his own.

Strange, really, that things are entrusted between them – Julian Bashir knows of Garak's father, and his claustrophobia, and other assorted weaknesses; Garak knows of the young man's fears, his fascination with Garak himself, and of his altered DNA. And is this not the greatest trust of all? Garak has seen the good doctor flustered, seen him angry, seen him ordering every ensign one way and then another, seen him _commanding_ , seen him leading – and now he sees him like this, exhausted, broken. Julian has seen Garak in much the same state.

Oh, Tain would kill him for this if he were still alive.

“You. O'Brien. Doctor Zimmerman,” Julian mutters. He's staring down at the way Garak is holding his hands, but not in such a way that Garak feels compelled to let them go.

“Well, telling Ziyal would make no difference. Particularly if we take her with us,” Garak points out. Lifting his head, Julian furrows his brow, and stares at Garak with utter perplexity painted on his face.

“Pardon?”

“Well, the cruiser is selling for three hundred and twenty one bars of Latinum, but I'm certain I can haggle down to two eighty.” Julian laughs.

“You aren't serious,” Julian says, obviously hoping that Garak is very serious indeed. He's so hopeful, sometimes: Garak envies it. Garak envies many things about Julian Bashir.

“Oh, but I am. Let's run away together, the three of us. Flee from the Dominion, from Starfleet. A Cardassian spy, the half-Bajoran daughter of a once-esteemed, now madman Gul, and a genetically engineered ex-Starfleet Doctor. You could even write a novel about it,” Garak purrs – is he serious? Perhaps. Yes, he thinks he is quite serious, in truth. Why shouldn't he be?

He hates it on Deep Space Nine, hates sewing dresses all day; for all the work is satisfying, it's dull. But to fly away with Tora Ziyal and Julian Bashir? They'd all fit comfortably on the cruiser, and a ship's license wouldn't be too difficult to procure. And they could have the cruiser a little hot, for his and Ziyal's sake, and Bashir would do fine in it. Bashir could wear a singular layer, or no layer at all, and he and Ziyal could dress like _normal_ people, wear clothes instead of insulated armour.

Perhaps even, over time in close quarters, he and Bashir might even grow somewhat closer. Garak certainly wouldn't mind the intimacy of space travel on a “family” ship – two sets of quarters on that ship. A small bedroom, and a double. It would be no trouble at all to engineer, that sort of thing, and it would only be proper that Ziyal take her own room and that Garak and Bashir share the one left over. It would only be _proper_.

Perhaps Dukat isn't the madman – perhaps Garak is. He ought be worried about the threats from Kira to start with, not even considering the danger from the travel itself, but oh, he should like to get away from here, and he should like to take this doctor with him. Julian stares at him, for a few drawn-out moments. He bites his lip, looks so hopeful for a second; oh, he wants to say yes. Come now, young fellow, just give an affirmative.

“What about your shop?” he asks softly, always thinking of someone else before himself, thinking of _Garak_ of all people. But that love of adventure is showing through, that fascination with running and spying and seeking out action – he's let it go dormant outside the holosuite, recently enough, but Garak can coax the bud back to flowering.

“I'll sell it to Quark. He'll give me a very good price for the chance to expand.”

“If Ziyal says no?”

“It'll be just us, but so's the better – Major Kira won't be breathing down our necks with pain of death, and we can still contact her every week or so in subspace chat.” Bashir's upset fatigue is beginning to fade somewhat, and he's beginning to look excited.

“My studies-”

“Bring them with us.”

“I can't practice-”

“We'll renew your license on Andoria, and you can practise from place to place. You can practise lying, too.” Julian bites his lip: Garak has him. He has him. What is that expression Mr O'Brien uses? Hook, line, and sinker.

“Why are you so willing to do this for me?” Julian asks, and he sounds so confused. He's so pretty when he looks confused, with his furrowed brow and lovely little frown. Garak wants to bite him. It's a primal urge, but a primal one Garak would quite happily satisfy. He would satisfy it with Julian on his back, Garak grasping tightly at his soft wrists instead of his hands and Julian gasping, crying out, arching his back and begging Garak for mercy. Garak could _destroy_ the young doctor with little more but his teeth and his tongue and a strong, strong grip.

But he won't.

“My dear, what gave you the idea that this is for you? I've not had a proper holiday in thirteen years,” Garak lies, as smoothly as he ever does. He does not reveal his desires, nor his imaginations, nor his fantasies. That is one line he will never cross with Julian Bashir.

“You just have an excuse now,” Julian supplies with a smirk, and Garak beams at him.

“Precisely.” If Garak were not a coward, he would kiss Julian at this moment. He would press his mouth to those soft, scaleless Human lips – genetically engineered and beautiful – and force the other man back into his chair, kiss him hard and leave the good doctor dazed with his prowess. And then he would strip that ugly uniform from him and begin to bite and bite and bite. Oh, and to think, getting Julian into clothes that are not Starfleet-issued... Is he truly considering this? How romantic, running off into the distance with the young doctor, and dressing him in silks and cloths and proper clothes, or indeed in nothing at all. And for Garak himself? No more thermal vests. Oh, the luxury!

Either of them could be killed at any opportunity – what a thought. What a delight. What an _indulgence._ “I should go back to my quarters,” Julian says. “I need to sleep.” Now, Elim. Now, kiss him, bite him, have him sleep in your quarters, have him so thoroughly that everyone he passes on the station will smell you on his skin and in his hair and on his tongue. Take him, mark him as your own, so that he passes from Starfleet's possession directly into your own.

“Very well, my dear,” Garak says, and he steps back to allow the other man to stand and go. His friend, Julian Bashir – friend, and nothing more. That is Julian, and this is Garak: Elim Garak, a spy-not-spy, a tailor-not-tailor, a liar-not-liar, and a coward through and through.

“I'll come to you after I've handed in my resignation, and we'll go and see about that cruiser,” Julian says brightly, and Garak neatly inclines his head. He knows from where he will get the cruiser – he's always kept escape plans up to date, that he will be better able to quickly get away in the event of the worst happenings, but he had never considered that buying such an escape vessel might be a delight. He is excited, Garak realizes. It has been some time since he has been excited.

“And then we'll speak to Ziyal and offer our invitation,” Garak agrees, and Julian becomes serious again for a few moments as the reality of it sinks in. “Are you alright, Doctor?” He must ask. He simply must, or Julian might change his mind, and Garak might be alone in his fantasies once more.

“Yes. Yes, it's just- it's daunting, isn't it?” Julian asks, and as the question leaves his mouth he gazes into the middle distance. He is startlingly beautiful in the light, and Garak wishes to bite a mark into the brown flesh of his neck and his jaw – humans become bloody so easily. Garak should like to see the drip of Julian's blood at his neck, and taste the copper of it on his tongue, feel its _warmth_ in his mouth.

“Yes,” Garak agrees. “Yes, my dear, it is. But I should hate to see you stay on this station and want for what you can no longer have.” Julian nods, a solemn expression on his face: those were the correct words to say, and Julian turns his back to leave. Garak has him. Bashir is _his_.

\---

“Garak!” is the doctor's exclamation as he enters the Cardassian's shop the next morning. “My father turned himself in! He'll be sent to a penal colony in New Zealand, on Earth, and Starfleet won't discharge me despite my genes.” He speaks excitedly, throwing his hands into the air as he does so, walking back and forth on Garak's carpet in his childish excitement.

“That is precisely why I suggested we leave the cruiser until after your meeting with Benjamin Sisko,” Garak says smoothly, and he pretends he isn't disappointed. Oh, how he might have liked to get away from Cardassia, Bajor, Deep Space Nine, the Dominion.

Alas; it was not to be.

“Did you know this would happen?” Julian asks, and Garak chuckles. He did not. He had no idea it would. He had allowed himself the stupidity that was _hope_ : he had allowed himself to believe he could take the Human for himself and ruin him far away from the prying eyes of the Federation's control.

“Why, ought I give you all my secrets?” comes the question from his mouth, in a low and teasing purr. He might even tell Julian a secret or two, mingled with lies, if he could do so directly against the ridiculous young thing's ear.

“I wish you would,” Julian says, hovering in the doorway for a moment or two. Garak hears the want in his voice – it is teetering and soft, and it sings through Garak's very soul. Oh, if Julian could only ask for everything in that lilting tone, and Garak would offer him the universe on a platter. “I'm sorry. You could always ask Ziyal, anyway, and take your holiday.”

“Oh, don't be obscene, my dear,” Garak tuts at him, in a chiding tone. “I could hardly take a malleable young woman off into the stars with me.”

“As opposed to a malleable young woman and a malleable young man?” Julian asks, lips twitching as he regards the other for a moment. He takes a slow step forwards, deliberately moving into Garak's space, into Garak's shop, into Garak's territory. The movement is deliberate, plainly so, and Garak knows for a moment that Julian shares the Cardassian's vision: he sees the slight dilation of the Human's eyes, sees his lips part, _knows_ of the fantasy at the forefront of his mind. As he steps further into Garak's property, he considers what it might be like to be part of it – or at least, more part of it than he already is, merely by association.

“Exactly. I'm nothing if not a collector, you see.” Julian smiles, and he sits on the stool across from Garak's workstation, hands folded in his lap. It's almost meek, the motion: it is almost an invitation, but it is not quite, and so Garak does not move forwards. He could not, he _will_ not.

“I'm so glad to have you, Garak.” As a friend. Have Garak as a friend, a Cardassian, spy, friend. He must remind himself of that, even when Julian's sweet and lovely gaze is an implication of something more. What Garak wouldn't give to have Julian over this table, strewn fabric and needles be damned, on his belly with his legs spread, the sounds coming loud from his mouth. “Perhaps we could do that, one day.”

“One day.” Garak agrees, in a warm, comfortable tone. Sexual tension thickens the air between them, as thick as smoke from burning oil, and Garak can _see_ Julian leaning forwards, ready to say something flirtatious. Garak simply can't allow it: he cuts through the tension with only five words. “And one day, I'll kill you.” It's a joke, and Bashir takes it as one. He abruptly leans back again, holds up his hand in a mock, gun-like shape, and Garak sees the _pow_ whispered on his lips more than he hears it.

“Not if I kill you first,” Garak snorts, amused, as Julian blows imaginary smoke from his imaginary murder weapon. “What else would you expect of me?” It's a sweet joke, and it forces a platonic air to the space between them once more.

“Well, Doctor Bashir,” Garak says, and he lets the pause hover pregnant in the air, delighting in it. It is not sexual. It is teasing, it is _dramatic_. It does not offer a place for Garak to misconduct himself. “I expect you to die.” Bashir lets out a loud sound of pure delight at Garak's well-executed reference, beaming at him. It is not a space cruiser with Garak and his only two friends, and it's not a cruiser with one friend and one lover, and it's not even a lover on its own.

But it's a smile, and some part of Garak he ought have quashed decades ago delights in how warm and pleasant the sight of that simple curve of lips makes him feel. “I'll see for lunch at 12:30?” Julian asks, and he looks so sweet. So sweet, so innocent – not so naive as he once was, matured, certainly, but in the scheme of things, he knows nothing of the universe. He knows nothing of what Garak could do to him, if he were only braver. Not yet. He is less naive than he ever was, and yet some part of Garak still wishes he could have taken Julian at the very cusp of his new knowledge of the universe.

What might his life had been like, Garak wonders, had he fucked the doctor the first week he had approached him? What would it have been like to pin Julian to the wall of the tailors once the Klingons had disappeared, to hear him cry and wail and scream? What might it have been like had Garak forced his head to turn away from Jadzia Dax, and affected it to gaze at Garak instead?

Would Garak have been happy?

Garak considers asking the young doctor, or saying something cryptic: “My dear doctor, happiness is not in my nature. Remember that, as you go this evening.” But no, no, he could not – it is too intimate a detail, too close to the truth. He can say nothing of the sort.

“Of course, my dear,” Garak says lightly, with a polite nod of his head. “I'll see you later.” He waits until after Julian leaves, and then he slams his hand down on the table hard, hard enough that the sound rings through the air.

But he is a good tailor, and he is a good spy and a good actor, and he is in control of his emotions. He sits down, pulling the dress into his lap once more: it will be finished within the hour. He glances to the side, at the PADD full of designs for new clothes: the idea of seeing Julian in something decent had excited him last night, and he'd sketched out a dozen designs. Les Misérables had lain forgotten by the wayside, and he had imagined Julian Bashir in little more than a blush and a wisp of silk.

He shakes his head, looking back to the silk again. Perhaps for Julian's next birthday he might consider creating one of the less revealing designs, but certainly nothing is to be considered for now.

“Garak?” comes a voice from the doorway, and Garak turns his head.

“Ziyal!” His greeting comes brightly and warmly from his mouth as she enters, the doors closing behind her. She looks positively radiant this morning, in a new dress of azure satin, and it certainly is a charming sight. “You're wearing your new dress!”

“Yes, thank you, Garak – it's so much warmer than the others.” It's a thing of numerous silken wrapped pieces and scarf-style ribbons, but beneath is a thicker tunic, reinforced for the sake of added heat. The station is so cold, after all. She smiles at him, warmly, as she moves forwards. He hates that she should wear such a thing, for even with Garak's artistic genius it is clumsy, it is so much _less_ than what she could wear, what she could deserve, were she somewhere warm and pleasant, without humans on every floor.

She reaches out with a dainty, gloved hand, and Garak doesn't stop her as she picks up the PADD on the side. “Are these for Julian?” He supposes he hadn't been subtle about the model on which he'd sketched each outfit. The smooth, brown skin of his imaginary mannequin is a clue in itself.

“Yes, my dear. I thought he'd be taking a trip, but that's no longer the case.” She settles on the edge of his work table, looking through each page with interest. Ziyal looks so charming when she furrows her brow like this – her nose ridges and forehead spoon each lower somewhat. It is- cute, he supposes.

“You really hate those uniforms, don't you?” she asks, and she teasingly kicks his knee. Garak chuckles, amused. He holds such affection for her, this young girl that has decided to adore him – he wishes he could protect her from the world that will no doubt one day be her demise, and his.

“Why, they are awful, Ziyal! Surely you see why I despise them so?” Garak smiles at her warmly, indulgently. He really ought nip this crush of hers in the bud, but he lacks the heart to crush her affections in his hand. Strange, really; he could be sufficiently ruthless to snap her neck, but not to hurt her feelings.

Wouldn't his father be proud?

“You should make him this one anyway,” Ziyal says, and she turns the PADD, showing Garak a sketch he'd spent a little longer on than the others – tight blue trousers, a cream-coloured shirt with a splayed wide collar and cuts into the sleeves to allow the sight of more skin, to be worn with black boots and a similar scarf. “I'd like to see him in this.”

“Oh, so I would I, my dear, so would I. Would you care to join the both of us for lunch today? 12:30.”

“That sounds good,” Ziyal murmurs, and she gives a nod. “This is, ah, strictly confidential, I suppose?” She does not know Garak as sinfully well as Julian does, but she knows him better than he ought, better than Garak ought ever have allowed her.

“You suppose quite correctly,” Garak says, and she grins, playing over the PADD with little thought for the movement of her fingers. He feels a twinge of worry, for a moment, where her father and the Dominion are concerned. He does have people to worry about these days – it certainly is infuriating.

“Care for a cup of tea, my dear girl?”

“I'll get some from the replicator,” she says with a nod, and he smiles once more, finishing off the stitch on the hem and setting the dress aside. Quite finished. Everything's quite finished, and he feels no satisfaction. He isn't satisfied. He's simply tired, and wanting, and jealous of the world.

“Ziyal?” Garak asks, and for a second his vulnerability is perhaps obvious in his tone, for she turns her head and peers at him with her adorable eyes, and he forces himself into his usual frame. He cannot be lesser. He can only be plain, simple Garak, and plain, simple Garak has no weaknesses he does not choose to have.

“Hmm?”

“Some tea cakes, as you're standing.”

 

 


End file.
